EVERY one has heard of the case of Elizabeth Canning. It is constantly quoted, constantly relied upon as an authority for propositions the most diverse and even contradictory. There is a general vague idea that an ingenious fraud was by some marvellous agency detected, that innocence was rescued from imminent peril, and truth vindicated; but by what means or under what circumstances this took place, who was innocent and who was guilty, very few of those in whose mouths the name of the case is most familiar would be able to say. To any one who has taken the pains to make himself master of the case, this hazy condition of mind will be anything but surprising. It is, in truth, perhaps the most complete and most inexplicable Judicial Puzzle on record; and after reading four hundred and twenty-nine pages of close bad print, in the 19th volume of the State Trials, a candid man will find himself equally amazed at the zeal, the industry, the ingenuity, with which it was sought to discover where the truth really lay, and the way in which, notwithstanding the fullest and most patient inquiry, that truth, though apparently close at hand, still eluded its pursuers.

Elizabeth Canning was a servantgirl in the family of a man of the name of Edward Lyon, a carpenter in Aldermanbury. At the time in question (1753) she was about eighteen years of age. Her father had during his lifetime been also in the employment of Mr Lyon; her mother resided in the immediate neighbourhood. She had previously been in the service of another neighbour of the name of Wintlebury for nearly two years there was every opportunity and every motive for the strictest examination of her character, and it bore the investigation without the slighest stain being detected. On the 1st of January 1753, her mistress gave Elizabeth Canning permission to spend the day with an uncle of the name of Colley, who lived at SaltpetreBank, now known as Dock Street, near Well-Close Square, and imme

diately behind the London Dock. In the evening Colley and his wife accompanied her on her way back to her master's in Aldermanbury as far as Houndsditch, where they parted from her soon after nine o'clock. At this point she was lost sight of. She did not return to her master's, nor to her mother. The surprise, alarm, and anxiety of her friends were extreme. Advertisements were repeatedly inserted in the papers, offering rewards for her discovery. It was said that a shriek had been heard, as of some female in distress, in a hackney-coach in Bishopgate Street, and attempts were made to find the driver, but in vain. No trace of the lost girl could be discovered. On the 29th of January, about a quarter after ten o'clock in the evening, just as they were preparing to fasten up the house and to go to bed, the latch of her mother's door was lifted, and a figure entered, pale, tottering, emaciated, livid, bent almost double, with no clothes but her shift, a wretched petticoat, and a filthy bedgown, a rag tied over her head, bloody from a wound on her ear. Such was the condition in which Elizabeth Canning returned

after an absence of four weeks. Where had she been, what had happened to her during those weeks?

The first question which presents itself is, What was the account given by the girl herself? Then follows the inquiry how far that account is supported, or in what respects is it contradicted by evidence subsequently produced? As we proceed, we shall find ourselves involved in a most perplexing and difficult investigation, but for the present we may confine our attention to Canning's own account. It was given in the presence of many witnesses, without apparent preparation or concert with any oneindeed, there was no time for this, as, immediately upon her arrival, the neighbours flocked in to express their sympathy and satisfy their curiosity. Few minutes had elapsed before the house was full.

Her former master, Mr Wintlebury

(who seems to have had a very kindly feeling towards her, and who gave her the highest character), was among them; another neighbour, of the name of Robert Scarratt, was also there, and many more.. The statement made by Canning in reply to their inquiries was, that as she passed through Moorfields, after parting from her uncle and aunt, she was attacked by two men, who robbed her of what money she had about her, stripped off her gown, and struck her a blow which rendered her insensible. That when she came to herself, she found that she was being dragged along a road; that about four o'clock in the morning they arrived at a house, into which she was carried by these two men; 66 when she came in, there was an elderly woman and two young ones: the old woman took hold of her arm and asked if she would go their way? and she said no. Then she went and took a knife out of a drawer, and cut the lacing of her stays and took them off, and gave her a great slap in the face, and told her she should suffer in the flesh, and opened a door, and shoved her up a pair of stairs into a room." This room she described as a "longish, darkish room,"+ in which there was some hay, a pitcher of water, some pieces of bread, -about as much as would be equal in quantity to a quartern loaf; that there was a fireplace and a grate, out of which she took the bedgown she had on, and the rag which was tied over her head; that there was a cask, a saddle, a pewter basin, and a few other articles, which she specified, in the room; that the house was ten or eleven miles from London on the Hertfordshire road; that there was a staircase near the room, up and down which she heard persons passing during the night, and that she had heard "the name of Mother Wills or Mother Wells mentioned."§ Whether this last statement as to the name of Wells was made in reply

to a suggestion or not, is, however, doubtful, Scarratt stating that it was in reply to an expression used by him when he heard she had been on the Hertfordshire road, that he would "lay a guinea to a farthing she had been at Mother Wells's;" whilst Mary Myers states that Canning had mentioned the name of Wells to her before Scarratt spoke, and that if Scarratt had spoken previously she must have heard him. She certainly said she had been confined in a room on the Hertfordshire road before any suggestion had been made to her; and when asked "how she knew that?" accounted for it by saying that she had seen, through the crevices of the boards which were nailed over the window, a coachman, to whom she had been accustomed to carry parcels for her master addressed to Hertford, and by whose coach her mistress had been in the habit of travelling, drive past the house. She said, that after remaining confined in this room, with no other food than the bread and water, and a minced pie which she happened to have in her pocket, from the 1st of January till the 29th, she escaped out at the window by pulling some of the boards down, and in doing so tore her ear. †† She described the woman who robbed her of her stays as a "tall, black, swarthy woman." Scarratt, whose suspicions had, as we have seen, pointed at Wells, immediately observed that "that description did not answer to her."§§ She then described very particularly the course she took through the fields, past a tanyard and over a little bridge into the high-road, after making her escape through the window. This description was, however, given in reply to leading questions put by Scarratt; but it is worthy of remark that she said she met a man, and asked her road to London, a fact which, as we shall presently see, was subsequently confirmed by the evidence of a witness of the name of Bennett.¶¶

Scarratt, p. 496-501. Scarratt, p. 495.

Scarratt, p. 496.

TT Bennett, p. 527.

Such in substance was the account given by Elizabeth Canning on the evening of the 29th of January. Is it matter of surprise that such a story, told by a young girl at the moment of her restoration to her family, spoken in the starts and snatches of extreme debility and exhaustion, attested by her emaciated form, her pallid cheek, her numb and withered limbs, should find deep sympathy and ready belief from those who had known her from childhood, who had listened day by day, for four weeks, to the lamentations of her mother, and who had felt, as every day passed, their hopes grow fainter, and their fears assume more and more the aspect of certainty? And after all, is there such improbability on the face of the story as should induce us even now to reject it as incredible? The robbery in Moorfields was the most probable of occurrences. It is impossible to take up a newspaper of that period without finding scores of such outrages recorded. It is true that it is difficult to assign any motive that could induce the robbers to encumber themselves with the strongest proof of their crime, by carrying her off; but it is equally difficult to suggest any cause other than that which she herself assigned for the condition to which she was reduced. An attempt was made during the proceedings to show a connection to have existed between Elizabeth Canning and the witness Scarratt, but the attempt utterly failed. Scarratt swore (and he would have been easily contradicted had he sworn falsely) that he had no acquaintance with the girl; and although he resided in the neighbourhood, he believed he had never even seen her until the night of her return to her mother's house. It was upon her saying that she had been on the Hertfordshire road that his suspicions pointed to Wells's house, which he had before known as one of evil repute, as the place of her confinement; but his good faith is shown by his admission that he mentioned the name of Wells to her first, and the description which. Canning gave of the room could not have been suggested by his questions,

*

as he had never been in it.* The description which she gave of the woman who cut off her stays is also conclusive that she was not prompted by Scarratt, who, when he heard it, immediately said that it did not answer to Wells, who was the person he suspected.

On the day but one after, the 31st of January, Canning repeated her story to Alderman Chitty, who was the sitting alderman at the time, and who thereupon issued his warrant for the apprehension of Mother Wells.

On the 1st of February, Canning, accompanied by her mother and her friends, went with the officer who had charge of the warrant to Enfield Wash.

The house of Mother Wells still stands a little beyond the tenth milestone on the Hertford road. It is on the right hand, at the corner of the lane leading down to the Ordnance Factory Station of the Eastern Counties Railway. The shell has been but little altered, and the rooms still remain nearly the same as they appear on the plan which was published in the Gentleman's Magazine for 1753. If the truth of Elizabeth Canning's story was to be proved in the same way as Jack Cade's royal descent, "the bricks are alive to this day to testify it." The window through which she escaped still commands a view of the road to Hertford. Chingford Hill might still, but for the cottages which have sprung up in consequence of the railway station, be seen, as she described, from the other window. The pan tiles of the roof still remain unpointed, and everything bears testimony to the truth of her description. But instead of Mother Wells and her gang of tramps and gypsies, we found, on our visit to Enfield Wash, a comely matron presiding at a table surrounded by bonny lasses and chubby boys from sixteen downwards, whose laughing blue eyes and clear rosy complexions formed as strong and agreeable a contrast to poor Elizabeth Canning as the bright furniture, cheerful hearth, and blazing fire did to the desolation, filth, and discomfort which

formerly prevailed in that now comfortable dwelling. Assuredly fate seems to have mingled a very fair allowance of sugar and nutmeg in the cup of Mr Negus-for such is the jolly name of the present occupant of the house, who seems to be, and we trust is, driving a prosperous trade as a baker.

Canning was carried from room to room, and at last into the loft. She immediately said, "This is the room I was in, but there is more hay in it than there was when I was here;" and she pushed some of the hay aside with her foot, and showed two holes in the floor which she had observed. She pointed out the cask, the saddle, the pitcher, the tobacco-mould, and the pewter basin, † which she had mentioned on her arrival at her mother's; and she correctly described the view which might be seen from each of the windows. On examination, the boards which closed up the window at which she said she had escaped, were found to have been only fastened there very recently, as "the wood was fresh split with driving a great nail through it, and the crack seemed as fresh as could be."

Could there be stronger confirmation of the truth of her story? By what means could Canning have acquired this accurate knowledge? It has been said that the room did not agree with Canning's description. A careful examination of the evidence shows, however, that it coincided with that description in the most remarkable manner. There were, no doubt, some discrepancies — for instance, Canning had mentioned a grate, and there proved to be none. She had spoken of a saddle, and three were found. She had spoken of being locked in, whilst in fact the door was fastened only with a button or bolt. There were some other trifling inaccuracies.

Suspicion had pointed at Wells as the person who had committed the outrage; but when Canning was brought into the room in which all the inmates of the house were collected, contradicting the expectation of her friends, she passed Wells by unnoticed, and, pointing to an old

gypsy woman of the name of Mary Squires, who was sitting by the fire, said, "That old woman in the corner was the woman that robbed me." The gypsy rose from her seat, drew aside the cloak in which she was partially muffled, and displayed a face such as, once seen, could not easily be forgotten. She was, as Canning had described her, "tall, dark, and swarthy." She looked steadfastly at Canning, and exclaimed, “Me rob you! I never saw you in my life before. For God Almighty's sake do not swear my life away! Pray, madam, look at this face; if you have once seen it before, you must have remembered it: for God Almighty, I think, never made such another. Pray, madam, when do you say I robbed you?" Canning said it was on the first day of the new year. "Lord bless me !" exclaimed the gypsy, "I was a hundred and twenty miles from this place then!" George Squires, the gypsy's son, immediately added, "We were in Dorsetshire at that time, at a place called Abbotsbury; we went there to keep our Christmas." Here we arrive at the beginning of what makes this case so remarkable. We have insisted on the importance of the first account given by Canning. The gypsy and her son are entitled to a like consideration. This prompt and ready alibi, asserted without hesitation, specifying time and place with undoubting accuracy, and thus affording means for testing its truth, gave occasion to the very remarkable conflict of testimony which followed, and which entitles this case to its rank as one of the most interesting on record. An alibi is, as has often been remarked, the best or the worst of defences. It often depends upon a few miles or even a few yards of distance, or upon a clock being a few minutes fast or slow. No such nicety arises in this case. The robbery was committed early on the morning of the first of January - New Year's Day, a date easily fixed. Abbotsbury is a hundred and fifty miles, as the crow flies, from Enfield: the gypsy understated the distance. It also often involves difficult questions

Adamson, p. 517.

of personal identity. None such arise here. The gypsy spoke truly when she said that God Almighty never made such another face as hers." She was not only singularly hideous, but deeply marked with the scars of disease; and the witnesses who were examined had many of them been long familiar with her appearance. These circumstances seem to exclude the possibility of mistake on the part of the witnesses. Must we then resort to the conclusion that one side or the other is guilty of perjury? This hypothesis, though easy and simple enough at first sight, will be found on investigation to be attended with nearly as many difficulties as any other. We must, however, go back to Elizabeth Canning, whom we left in Mother Wells's kitchen, confronted by the gypsy and her son. In the house, besides the gypsy and her family, was a man of the singular name of Fortune Natus and his wife, and a young woman named Virtue Hall. The whole party were forthwith taken to the residence of the nearest magistrate, Mr Teshmaker, of Ford's Grove, by whom all were discharged, with the exception of the gypsy and Mother Wells, who were committed to prison to take their trial, the one for stealing Canning's stays, and the other as accessory to the felony.

A new actor now comes on the stage, and a curious insight is afforded into the mode in which inquiries of this nature were conducted in the metropolis a hundred years ago. Henry Fielding, the celebrated novelist, was then a police magistrate of London.

To tell a tale told by Fielding in any words but his own would indeed be presumption.

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"L Upon the 6th of February," he says, as I was sitting in my room, Counsellor Maden being then with me, my clerk delivered me a case, which was thus, as I remember, indorsed at the top: 'The case of Elizabeth Canning, for Mr Fielding's opinion;' and at the bottom, 'Salt, Sol". Upon the receipt of this case, with my fee, I bid my clerk give my service to Mr Salt, and tell him that I would take the case with me into the country, whither I intended to go the next day, and desired he would call for

it on the Friday morning afterwards; after which, without looking into it, Í delivered it to my wife, who was then drinking tea with us, and who laid it by. The reader will pardon my being so particular in these circumstances, as they seem, however trifling they may be in themselves, to show the true nature of this whole transaction, which hath been so basely misrepresented, and as they will all be attested by a gentleman of fashion, and of as much honour as any in the nation. My clerk presently returned upstairs, and brought Mr Salt with him, who, when he came into the room, told me that he believed the question would be of little difficulty, and begged me earnestly to read it over then, and give him my opinion, as it was a matter of some haste, being of a criminal nature, and he feared the parties would make their escape. Upon this, I desired him to sit down, and when the tea was ended, I ordered my wife to fetch me back the case, which I then read over, and found it to contain a very full and clear state of the whole affair relating to the

usage of this girl, with a query what methods might be proper to take to bring the offenders to justice; which query I answered in the best manner I was able. Mr Salt then desired that Elizabeth Canning might swear to her information, before me; and added that it was the very particular desire of several gentlemen of that end of the town, that Virtue Hall might be examined by me relating to her knowledge of this affair. This business I at first declined, partly as it was a transaction which had happened at a distant part of the country, as it had been examined already by a gentleman with whom I have the pleasure of some acquaintance, and of whose worth and integrity I have, with all, I believe, who know him, a very high opinion; but principally, indeed, for that I had been almost fatigued to death with several tedious examinations at that time, and had intended to refresh myself with a day or two's interval in the country, where I had not been, unless on a Sunday, for a long time. I yielded, however, at last, to the importunities of Mr Salt; and my only motives for so doing were, besides those importunities, some curiosity, occasioned by the extraordinary nature of the case, and a great compassion for the dreadful condition of the girl, as it was represented to me by Mr Salt.

"The next day Elizabeth Canning was brought in a chair to my house, and being led up-stairs between two, the following information, which I had never